Lionheart
by WizardsGirl
Summary: Rook had always had a weakness for kids. It didn't surprise him at all that it would get him in trouble.


**A/N:** Have Mama Bear!Rook!

Love him!

(I do)

**Lionheart**

Rook had always had a weakness to children. The younger, the stronger he felt. Somewhere in the amorphous time between sixteen and twenty, however, all children seemed to just sort of... Devolve. Oh, they were still young enough he felt responsible but...

Well.

Teenagers and young adults were _assholes_ and Rook had enough issues when _he was one_ to know that it wasn't worth the headache to try and coddle them.

No, it was younger children that he had no defense against and, had any of the Seeds realized this and had been willing to risk the Wrath Johnny-boy liked to accuse him of, he had no doubt that he'd be finding more children around carrying guns and crosses. But no, from what he could tell the Seeds were very strict on keeping children and their closest parental figures close together and in the bunkers. Johnny's, in particular, seemed to be home to the most toddlers, infants, and preteens, which was one of the few reasons Rook refused to go anywhere near it, even after some pointed mutters from some Resistance members.

Rook was a murderer now, he had no compunctions about calling himself a hypocrite after all, but he was no child killer. Hell, the one black mark on his record came from when he was suspended with no pay after breaking a child abuser's arm. It was actually the reason he moved to Hope County so, who knows, maybe it was a 'sign'. Joseph certainly thought so.

The point is that Rook has a bit of a temper when it comes to people threatening children. Its something of a Rage Trigger for him, something that drenched his sight in red and made his world narrow. It was, to state it simply, an Unforgivable Offense. Friend, family, love of his life, or complete stranger, it didn't matter. If you threatened a child in front of Rook, if you _raised your hand_ to a child, Rook was ten million times more likely to kill you on the spot and ask questions never.

So, it was safe to say that when he came upon a group of five Resistance Members cornering a terrified little girl, no older than seven, wearing a Cultist outfit and huddling next to the fresh corpse of an adult Peggy while she clutched a revolver in shaking hands, well. Rook didn't even have to think about what he was going to do as he saw the Resistance members take aim with their bows and handgun.

Rook is a large man, six-foot-four and over half of that wide again, muscle layered over muscle and thick, heavy bones. Broad-shouldered, thick waisted, and big-handed, there was nothing about him, at first glance, that didn't make smaller people nervous. He looked like a bouncer, a brawler, and a caveman all at once.

But this just meant, when he lunged from the bushes to cover that scared little girl and shoved her gun to the side where it fired harmlessly into the ground, that there was _more than enough_ of _him_ between those arrows and her, the Resistance gunshot going wild over his head. The girl stared up at him with huge, brown eyes, tears falling, and Rook offered her a gentle smile even as he tugged the gun easily from her tiny, shaking hand, and kept his shoulders up so she wouldn't see the arrows dug deep into his back. At least one of them had gone deep enough that he was no doubt bleeding internally, but the others were only muscle-deep, tips scraping at the bones of his ribs.

_Shit shots_, the part of him that sounded like his old shooting instructor scoffed scathingly.

"Stay close, sweetheart," he crooned, reaching forward and tucking the little girl against his chest, his gray eyes turning black with cold Death as he turned his head, lifted the revolver (which looked like a child's toy in his massive hand), and fired the remaining five bullets with the accuracy that had seen him in first place in every shooting range competition he'd ever participated in. Five fresh bodies hit the dirt and Rook casually dropped the gun to turn all his focus back onto the tiny girl who had started clinging tightly to his shirt, sobbing into his chest as he cradled her with one arm.

"Hey, easy there, munchkin," he murmured, wrapping her up in his arms tightly. "You're gonna be okay, I promise, it's going to be alright." He rocked her gently, carefully cradling her tiny, helpless form to himself until her sobbing quieted to wet sniffles.

"Th-they killed U-Uncle Jared," she told Rook with a couple hiccups, leaning back and scrubbing at her face. "He, he was t-trying to get us t-to the Father, 'cause Papa took Mama there when she started getting' sick 'cause he was worried 'bout the baby," she sniffled, and Rook pulled a wadded up, unused napkin out of his back pocket so she could blow her nose. "An-and now Uncle Jared is _dead_ and, and I dunno what's gonna happen to me," she cried, tears starting anew, and Rook shushed her gently, before deciding to just pick her up. The shallower arrows in his back scrapped and ground into his ribs as he stood, and the deeper one made his chest ache fiercely at the sudden shift in his muscles and posture, but he ignored them, tucking the little girl against his chest and turning towards what his mental map named Joseph's Compound. It was a good few hours walk, but there was no way he'd be able to drive anything but an ATV with his back the way it was, but the likelihood of finding one and getting there safely with the munchkin were abysmally low.

"What's your name, sweetheart?" he asked her; the little girl sniffled, curling in his arms tiredly.

"Lyra," she told him softly.

"Well, Miss Lyra, my name is Deputy Rook," he told her easily as he carried her into the woods. "And I'm going to escort you straight to the Father's Compound so you can get there safely, alright? You'll be with your parents safe and sound before you know it, okay, honey? I'll keep you safe. I'm a police officer, after all, it's kind of my job," he teased her, getting a weak, relieved smile as she snuggled into him. Within thirty minutes of walking, she was asleep, and Rook had carefully shifted her into one arm so that he could hold his nine-mil in the other. He could feel the blood dripping steadily, freely, down his back, and was relieved that his shirt was black and that he was big enough that, unless she was looking over his shoulder, there was no chance for little Lyra to notice. Taking a careful, deep breath, Rook grimaced at the faintly copper taste in the back of his throat, cracked his neck, and marched onward grimly.

In the hours that passed in grim silence, Rook noted with a begrudging sort of frustration, that he was losing far too much blood. Any other time, he would have taken these arrows, had a Resistance member help get them out and patch him up, and gone on his merry way to destroy some more Cultist outposts or silos. He couldn't do that with little Lyra depending on him, couldn't afford to stop and try and take care of his own wounds either, and like _hell_ was he going to ask the little girl to help _pull arrows out of him_. She'd just witnessed her uncle shot down and been threatened by the same grown men who'd done it. He was _not_ going to add to her trauma.

As a result, however, by the time he was close enough to the Compound that stepping out of the woods would get him immediately spotted by the guards, he was in no state to run, let alone fight. His legs were trembling faintly, and the corners of his vision had long gone fuzzy and indistinct. His head pounded as the taste of copper had him compulsively swallowing, breathing forced steady to keep himself from panting. Carefully, he jiggled Lyra in his arms, having long since been forced to put his gun away so he could carry her in his steadily weakening hold. The little girl woke with a flinch, blinking her brown eyes blearily around, her short brown hair standing up in cowlicks on the side of her face that had been snuggled into his chest, drool on her cheek.

"Good morning, sunshine," Rook teased her, smiling faintly as the little girl scrubbed sleepily at her face, making an unhappy noise. "We're at the Compound, honey. Time to wake up, okay?"

"Mkay, Mister Rook," she yawned. "Imma 'wake," she slurred, yawning again, and Rook chuckled even as he took another careful, deep breath and purposefully made his way slowly out of the woods. Immediately, the alarm went up, the guards no doubt recognizing him from the many Wanted Posters and the havoc he'd rained down on their people. There was soon a good dozen men pointing guns at him, something that made the muscles in Rook's shoulders coil with anger as he instinctively held Lyra closer. He stopped a good thirty feet away from them, standing in the center of the road and eying them all grimly. Carefully, slowly, he knelt and set Lyra on her feet, blinking the black spots out his vision and forcing himself to focus on the little girl, who clung to one of his large hands and peered at the Cultists uncertainly.

"It's alright, ladybug," he murmured, reaching forward and tenderly brushing her hair into place as she peered up at him shyly. "You'll be just fine, alright? Trust me, I'm a police officer, I wouldn't let you get hurt." Little Lyra hesitated, before nodding and letting go of his hand. She cautiously started towards the Cultists, glancing back at Rook every so often as he remained kneeling, not wanting to force himself to his feet when he had no guarantee that he wouldn't collapse again, not yet, at least. The first couple of Cultists had lowered their guns, calling out behind them about the child, one of them stepping forward and kneeling down, making 'come here' gestures with a strained smile, eyes darting to Rook again and again, warily, like he would suddenly attack.

Lyra was almost to him before she suddenly turned and raced back to Rook, throwing herself at him so suddenly that his dazed mind hadn't noticed until her arms were around his neck as she hugged him tightly. He bit back a pained hiss, feeling dizzy as his face no doubt paled, swaying in place as her tiny hands pressed into his upper back, just a few scant inches above the deepest arrow.

"Thank you, Mister Rook," she whispered, pulling back and smiling at him; Rook managed a weak smile back, kissing her on the forehead before gently pressing her back towards the Cultists. Lyra moved easily away, much more confident the second time. At least, she seemed that way, but, just as she was almost to the Cultist again, she seemed to hesitate, a tiny frown on her face. Rook watched through blurring vision as she glanced down at her hands, at her _red hands_ and froze, her eyes going wide as she turned to stare at him.

"Mister Rook?" She asked weakly, holding up her red-coated hands, and Rook could only keep smiling gently at her as the Cultist finally darted forward to gently pick her up.

"It's going to be alright, ladybug," he told her gently, calmly as she reached for him with wide, worried eyes as the Cultist carried her away. "I promised, didn't I?" He watched as the Cultist hurried away with the little girl, disappearing into the Compound, before Rook let himself sigh, eyes closing briefly as he let the tension in his shoulders go enough for them to curl slightly. Taking a slow, copper-drenched breath, he forced his eyes open again and looked up, just as Joseph Seed himself stepped out among the wary, armed guards, shirtless and shoeless and yellow Ray-Bans in place.

Rook stared at the 'Father', expression blank as the man approached, before grunting and forcing himself to his feet, locking his knees as the world around him spun and he swayed in place dangerously.

"My Child, you're hurt," Joseph called calmly. "Please, let us tend to your wounds. Let us _help_ you," he asked gently, kindly, tone the same one he always used when speaking to Rook, affectionate and warm, as if they were close friends (family), as if he had the right to. Rook straightened tall and peered down at him as the so-called Prophet stopped in front of him. Rook stared at him as Joseph reached up towards his face, allowing himself to be pulled down to press foreheads together.

"If you came across an _actual_ child," Rook started, voice quiet and considering as he struggled to stay focused. "And their parents were key-members of the Resistance who had just been killed by your men. What would you do with them?" Joseph peered up at him from behind those ridiculous glasses, his man-bun messy and faintly greasy from this close.

"I would take the child, unharmed, and bring them back to the Compound so that they would be safe," he told Rook simply. "As we have done for every child we have come across during the Reaping. As we wish to do for all children. They are our Future, the Innocent Lambs of the New Eden." He tilted his head and stared at Rook, who just nodded back, something relaxing in his chest and face. Rook offered a half-quirked smile at the Father.

"Good," he replied, before the world abruptly went sideways and Rook found himself slamming down onto his knees with a harsh gasp, Joseph catching his shoulders to keep him from face-planting into the ground.

"My Child," the Prophet breathed, hand reaching back to touch the arrows embedded in the Deputy's back, and Rook chuckled wetly, coughing a bit and grimacing at the sharp flare of pain in his back and chest.

"They were meant for her," he managed to huff out. "From the Resistance." Rook grit his teeth and lifted his head to focus on Josephs face, eyes squinting as he struggled to _actually_ focus, the Prophets face blurry and indistinct besides those stupid, yellow Ray-Bans. "The only way I'd let a threat to a child pass is if I'm dead or incapable of moving. And even then, I best be killed soon or the _instant_ I can move again I will _destroy __**everything**__ in my path_ to avenge that child." Slowly, he bared his teeth at Joseph, tasting blood on his tongue. "S'why I don't go near your Bunkers and shoot down every plan to go near 'em. Won't... Won't be resp'ns'ble f'r th't," he slurred out, blinking rapidly to try and stay conscious, before, suddenly, he was being gently lowered by Joseph to the ground, soothing words murmured over his head.

With a grumble and a sigh, Rook let his world go black, and bemusedly wondered if he'd even wake up again.

_Well,_ he thought later, after slowly waking up sprawled out on his side in a bed that wouldn't look out of place in a hospital, with an IV filled with blood and what looked like another bag of Bliss swirling beside it. _Guess that answers that question._ Little silver-green butterflies fluttered around with a few sparkles, not enough to state that he was fully in the Bliss, but more like what happened if he was in contaminated water for too long. Carefully, not wanting to pull any of the stitches he could vaguely feel in his back, Rook sat up, turning so he was on the edge of the bed, long legs easily reaching the floor as he sat there, blinking slowly.

"You're awake, My Child," Joseph's voice stated quietly; Rook looked up to find the Preacher sitting in a chair nearby, one ankle resting on his knee, a notebook spread out and pen poised.

"You're actually wearing a shirt," Rook replied, bemused, as he peered at the blue button-up the Preacher was wearing, a gray vest over it. The other man offered him a benign smile and lifted a hand to gesture at himself in an almost playful way.

"John insisted," he replied, and Rook didn't know if he was hallucinating the teasing tone the other had or not, but he could admit it was kinda funny to hear. "Said I shouldn't 'scare you away' with my, ah, 'exhibitionistic ways'," the Preacher drawled, Georgian accent thickening as he shook his head faintly, smile warm and affectionate. Rook snorted and rolled his eyes, offering a half-grin in response, silvery-green butterflies landing on his shoulders and keeping him relaxed and calm.

"John is the absolute _last_ person to be talking about anyone else's exhibitionistic tendencies," he announced; Joseph chuckled and closed his notebook, pen holding his place, as he stood and stepped forward. Despite the fact he was sitting down, Rook still didn't have to look up much to meet the Preachers eyes, holding that gaze as Joseph reached out and cupped his face with his hands, pulling the Deputy forward so that they could touch foreheads.

"I am glad you're awake, My Child," Joseph told him softly, gently. "You worried us all, collapsing as you did. The doctors stated that you had lost several pints of blood, and that one of the arrows had managed to clip one of your lungs. It was... An exercise in faith, if you will, believing that you would pull through without complications."

"How long was I out?" Rook asked curiously, unmoving as Joseph kept his head held hostage, fingers almost too-warm against his skin. The Prophet hummed lowly, thumbs stroking against Rooks face.

"Four days, seven hours, and twenty-eight minutes," the other man replied simply, easily, and Rook snorted softly, half-grin widening a bit.

"But who's counting, right?" he replied; Joseph smiled and pulled his head away to press another of those overly-familiar kisses to Rooks forehead.

"Indeed," he answered, tone affectionate as he stroked the back of Rooks head and stepped back. "Give me a moment, Child," he said, smiling gently. "There is someone who wishes to see you." Rook just half-smiled back at the Preacher, relaxed and calmer than he'd been in a long, _long_ time. And, after a moment, he blinked and found a tiny brown-haired missile launching itself at him from the doorway as Joseph stepped neatly out of the way.

"Mister Rook!" Lyra cried as she lunged up into his lap, completely fearless as she used what most of the Cultists thought of as the Herald of Death as a climbing gym.

"Hey there, ladybug," Rook murmured, instinctively using his massive hands to cradle the energetic, beaming little girl tenderly as she hugged him tightly around the chest, her little arms unable to reach around the sides of his ribs, let alone go anywhere near his back. The smile that comes to his face is full and soft and no-doubt shows off the gap between his front teeth and the chipped tip of his left canine, but he's about as able to stop it as he is to suddenly stop gravity. And, seeing that little face, clean and bright and beaming, makes the warmth in his chest (that he's about thirty percent sure has something to do with the now half-empty bag of Bliss) fill him up and make him melt. Gently, tenderly, he cradled her tiny, fragile, _trusting_ head in one of his massive hands, and let his shoulders curl forward, cuddling the little girl close as if he could tuck her into his heart and keep her safe from the world.

To the side, standing by the door, Joseph watched the very large, dangerous man who tore through his Faithful like wet tissue paper, who destroyed everything the Project worked for with the easy enthusiasm as a child on Christmas, who bathed his hands and soul in the blood of the Faithful and whose eyes were usually as cold and dark as the death that he dealt out with such ease. Joseph watched that same man, the one he had seen kill without hesitation or care or mercy, cradle the small child close and _melt_, and Joseph was reminded of the tale of the Lamb and the Lion. The ferocious, deadly beast tamed by the kindness of the helpless child who showed it that there was another way.

"I'm a big sister now, Mister Rook!" the little girl chimed in gleefully, voice high and bright like a ray of sunshine, and Joseph smiled tenderly despite the mournful pang in his chest as he watched.

"And I'm sure you're already a fantastic one, Princess," the Deputy rumbled softly, and Joseph wondered at it, the soft tenderness that hid the Deputy's fangs and blade-sharp soul.

"My new brother is so little and weird," little Lyra informed the Deputy seriously. "He screams a lot, and he looks kinda like a red potato..." She wrinkles her little nose, and Joseph watches the smile on the Deputy's face widens into a grin, teeth shown for once in something that held no malice, no challenge, and certainly no _Wrath_.

"_All_ babies look like red potatoes, sweetheart," the Deputy informed the girl teasingly. "You did, I did, the Father over there did, _everyone_ did. You grow out of it." Joseph felt his heart beat _hard_ against the confines of his ribcage, his stomach tightening with the stirring of pleasure as the Deputy called him 'Father'. It was not quite to the point of Lust, but the pleasure, the satisfaction, of the very _idea_ of Hell's Herald calling him by his Title, of _submitting_ to the ideals Joseph had worked so hard to build, of _allowing himself_ to finally be Saved and take his proper place with their Family, as the Final Herald, as he was _meant to..._

Pride had always been Josephs strongest Sin, as Wrath was Jacobs and Greed was Johns and Envy was Faiths...

Smiling faintly, tenderly, at the two resting on the bed, Joseph turned and slipped from the room, plans and ideas forming as God's Plan for the Deputy finally began to set in. It was obvious, now, that He had had a plan all along, and that they had all been missing the key point in implementing that plan.

"Joseph," John greeted warmly as he looked up from the table where their newest plans and maps had been set. Jacob grunted as he drew a red x over a lost outpost with a wry twist to his mouth. Faith fluttered over to his side as Joseph took his place at the head f the table, smiling gently at his Family as he did so.

"Where do you want the Deputy sent?" She asked him sweetly, gently, eyes wide and affectionate as she peered up at him, smiling brightly. "He's not very sensitive to my Bliss, and using the amount needed to put him fully under is dangerous, so I don't think it will be with me..." She pouted at that, before laying her head against his shoulder affectionately, and Joseph could only chuckle as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"God has given us a Gift," he declared simply, warmly. "The dear Deputy, it seems, has been created as a Guardian in truth, a protector of the weak, one that goes beyond a simple badge. He shall go to John's Bunker, and he will go gladly, for his heart knows only the longing to protect our most innocent of lambs."

"He's gotta sweet spot for kids," Jacob grunted agreeably. "Makes him a liability in raids and take-overs, but put him against an armed outpost and he will annihilate anyone who stands in his way. Strong, but weak." The oldest Seed looks up, lips quirked in a half-smile. "Put him in as a shield for the kiddies, and he'll play Mama Bear 'til he's dead, and maybe after, if that stubbornness is anything to say." The satisfied admiration in his older brother's voice makes Joseph smile at him, pleased that Jacob isn't going to argue as he so often does, stuck in his Wrath and Pride as he so often is when it comes to any sort of militant planning.

"He needs to be Cleansed," John agreed eagerly, smile knife-sharp and eagerness giving his eyes a manic shine, always so keen to help in whatever way he can, even when his Sins are dragging their claws down his back. "I will take his Confession and he will be Saved, I promise, Joseph, I wont fail you," he announced, almost pleading, and Joseph reached across the table to take his little brothers hand, squeezing firmly, gently, and offering a smile as John peered at him earnestly.

"I have no doubts, John," he told his brother, honestly, and John let out a soft, relieved sigh. "Remember. You must Love Them, John," he added gently, kindly, as he knew his brothers Sins more intimately than he knew his own, and John bowed his head, pressing their hands to his forehead as if he were being blessed, and Josephs heart warmed for his poor, lost baby brother, who struggled far more than any of them and was still so willing to _try_.

"I will, Joseph," John breathed, looking up at him earnestly, eagerly. "I promise I will." And Joseph nodded gently, before pulling his hand back.

"God has given us a Gift," he said again, a gentle smile on his face as he traced a finger over a particular part of the map, making Jacob hum and mark it down, as he always did. "He has sent us a Lion to guard our Lambs. And, like in the story of old, it is with kindness and love that we will calm the Wrath in our Lions Soul, and pull the thorns of hate from his paws, and he will turn his fangs and claws against our enemies in kind."

"We must Love him," Joseph murmured, blue eyes glittering behind his Ray-Bans and Purpose in his heart as he met the stares of his siblings. "And he will Love us in return."

In the other room, Rook was laughing softly as little Lyra regaled him with a tale about a silly dog she once knew, and felt, for the first time in months, at peace.

**A/N:** I have an aesthetic and it is massive men cradling tiny children and animals and I must share it with you all.


End file.
